Gillian Galbraith - Dying Of The Light

‘Naw,’ she said quietly. ‘Thanks, though.’

‘Naw – you like real men, eh, men like us!’ the youth guffawed, puffing out his thin chest and beating it before rising from his seat to sit next to her. She edged herself towards the window, sliding away from him, but he followed, cramming himself alongside her until their hips touched and she was crushed against the side of the bus. He turned to face her and his breath stank of alcohol and tobacco. But, close up, he was no more than a boy.

‘Ye no’ fancy me then, hen?’

Exhausted as she was, she prodded her brain into action. If she said that she did fancy him, then God alone knew what he would be up to next. On the other hand, if she said that she did not, then he might take offence, get angry, become more abusive or whatever. And she had not enough energy left to administer the tongue-lashing he deserved. So, in a voice that sounded as weary as she felt, she said softly, ‘You’re just fine, son. But ah’m auld enough tae be yer maw.’

Her companion pretended to look angry and the other youth, now hunkered down on the seat in front but facing her, grinned and started to wag a finger at his friend. The dark-haired boy looked at the woman again, experimenting with another furious expression, his teeth clenched and his jaw jutting out aggressively.

‘D’ye think ah fancied ye or somethin’, ye auld dug!’ he shouted in her face.

Something else would have to be said, something to calm him down and end this exchange, otherwise she would have to leave the bus to escape their attentions, with three stops still to go and a mile or more to walk.

‘Naw, son,’ she replied soothingly, ‘naw, I ken fine ye dinnae.’ And no wonder, she thought to herself, catching a glimpse of her reflection in the dark glass. She looked haggard, more like her mother than herself.

The vehicle’s brakes screeched noisily as it drew to a halt, and the dark-haired boy stood up and swung himself back into his original seat, slumping down beside his companion. Julie Neilson sighed and rubbed her tired eyes, then looked hard in the driver’s direction in the hope that someone else would get on the bus, and she would not be alone with the two youths for any longer. Her prayers were answered, and a teenage girl, with dirty blonde hair scraped tight into a ponytail and thick black mascara under her eyes, stepped aboard and then sashayed up the aisle to lounge across the back seat. As soon as she was seated she lit up ostentatiously, looking around her neighbours and daring anyone to object.

‘Whit ye oan the bus fer?’ the fair-haired boy enquired of her, a salacious grin on his face and his eyes resting on her long bare legs.

‘Nae fer a ride wi’ either o’ yous, ye wee tossers,’ she spat back, flicking her cigarette-ash towards him contemptuously as she spoke. And watching them blush, reduced to children again, Julie Neilson felt almost sorry for them.

Once inside her flat she opened the door to her daughters’ room and tiptoed inside, picking up a primary school skirt and blouse from the floor and hanging them over the back of the chair, for use the next day. Two pairs of miniscule tights had been discarded, one draped over the toy-box and the other suspended from a mobile. She folded them up and put them in the dirty washing box, removing a doll from it at the same time.

In the light falling from the hallway the girls’ faces could be clearly seen; one pale with long upturned lashes, her unruly auburn hair spread behind her on the pillow like a lion’s mane, and the other a redhead too, but with short, curly locks. Julie Neilson knelt between her children’s beds, listening with pleasure for a few seconds as they breathed in and out, before, tenderly, brushing a ringlet from the younger one’s brow with her fingers. Gazing at their perfection she felt at peace, blessed even, their presence reminding her that, whatever had gone wrong in her life, something had gone right, something good had come out of it all.

How lucky she had been, how lucky she still was! And might be for a couple of years longer, because ignorance was bliss, and their innocence protected her from herself as well as from the rest of the world. One day they might be ashamed of her, even wish that she was not their mother, but not today or tomorrow. And perhaps, by then, everything would have changed and she would change too, find a job as a shelf-stacker or something. In the meantime they had enough money for school trips, dancing lessons and everything else. Man or no man.

She crept out of their room and into the kitchenette, starting to brew a cup of hot chocolate, trying Muriel’s phone number again while waiting for the milk to boil. As before, she got a ring tone but no answer and, glancing at her watch anxiously, saw that it was past half eleven. If Muriel did not get in contact within the next hour then she would have to call the police, that was the arrangement. No doubt all would be well, her lateness being down to some minor accident or oversight, but with things as they were, or had been, she could take no chances. Not with a life at stake.

Her legs folded beneath her, she nestled into the settee to watch the TV, burning her lips on the boiling cocoa and nearly tipping it onto her lap. Her eyes rested on the screen, but she knew she was taking in nothing, preoccupied, unable to follow the simplest plot. In her head she was busy rehearsing what she should say on the phone, the exact words she would use in describing the punter, and trying her best to remember everything about the man. Screwing up her eyes with the effort, she attempted to create a picture of him, visualise the figure she had seen, but little came. He was big, bulky even, wearing some kind of flapping waterproof with a broad brimmed hat on his head. That was all there was, no name, nothing to identify him or distinguish him from half a million other Johns.

Eventually she stopped trying, convincing herself that she was being melodramatic, overreacting, manufacturing a crisis and enjoying the drama and her own starring part in it. But every few seconds, an insistent voice in her head repeated a single, unanswered question: why has Muriel not called? And, on the stroke of midnight, she found herself talking to a policeman, blurting out all that she knew, sobbing uncontrollably and being comforted by the enemy.

At eight a.m. on the dot, Elaine Bell arrived in her office and triumphantly extracted her mug from its new hiding place behind a pot of African violets. Their sad, dust-encrusted leaves proclaimed that the spot was unvisited by the meddler with her tickling stick. Detective work at its best. She dipped a teaspoon into her yogurt and then sucked it, distractedly, her mind on the complaint made against her and the meeting at two p.m. with the DCC to discuss the outcome of the investigation. Surely, nothing would come of it, at least not if the expression ‘free speech’ retained any meaning and progress up the greasy pole did not involve the surgical removal of any sense of humour.

And, please God, no counselling this time! The prospect of facing another bright-eyed innocent dispensing the blindingly obvious in the guise of a unique and rare insight was too much to bear. When would they grasp that the problem lay not in an inability to distinguish between an ‘appropriate’ comment and an ‘inappropriate’ one, but rather in the challenge of withstanding provocation?

Of course, the sensitivities of the public had to be accorded due regard, but how many of them, she wondered, could have kept silent in the face of the self-righteous spectacle that had confronted her? Looking out of the window, spoon-handle sticking out of her mouth, she visualised the ‘complainant’, his portly figure now standing before her, hands on his hips and on the edge of apoplexy. A man who had no difficulty finding his way in his simple, black-and-white world and who knew whose side the angels were on. Invariably, his own. And that harmless quip had escaped her lips before her brain had an opportunity to censor it.